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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26431363">final chrysalis</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/calcelmo/pseuds/calcelmo'>calcelmo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter (Hopkins Movies), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris, Red Dragon (2002)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Case Fic, Character Study, Crossover, Gen, Mental Instability, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Parallel Universes, Slow Build, Tags May Change</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:54:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,321</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26431363</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/calcelmo/pseuds/calcelmo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><em>I look at Will, who's staring down at the floor, a muscle jumping in his jaw. I'm conscious that my feelings towards him are beginning to mirror the ones I have for my son. It's ridiculous, because we're both in our thirties, and my son is fourteen. But Will is in need of protection more than anyone I have ever known. And it's more than that. Will is a part of me, even though we're so different I can scarcely believe it. I have to look out for him. <em></em></em><br/><em><br/><em>It's more than a name that they share. It can't be put down to coincidence.</em><br/></em><br/>Update: Likely will continue writing around Christmas-time. I am extremely busy with university and can't give this fic the time and consideration it needs at the moment!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hannibal Lecter/Clarice Starling, Molly Graham/Will Graham, Will Graham &amp; Will Graham, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. WILL | I.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fanfiction takes inspiration from all forms of Hannibal-related canon media. Originally conceived as an excuse to have these two incarnations of Will Graham interact with each other; it soon developed into the most ambitious project I have ever undertaken. I sincerely hope my readers enjoy the work; please let me know your thoughts in the comments :)</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Takes place from the point of view of Will from Red Dragon.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em> "Dip him in the river who loves water."</em>
</p><p> - William Blake</p><hr/><p>This night begins as any other. My life has long since descended into tedium, so much so that every day rolls into the next. I was grateful at first. Routine promotes healing. But time goes by, and I grow restless. I become distant and pensive, lost in the past. </p><p>The cabin is located around Chesapeake Bay. I feel most at home when I’m close to the water. Jack Crawford pulled out the stops to secure one of the FBI’s most luxurious safehouses as my own private residence. Round the clock, an agent is posted outside. Even post factum, my family and I are too alluring a target for the budding murderer.  </p><p>I can’t sleep.</p><p>My head is throbbing with the dull pain of a migraine undoubtedly on its way to worsening, so I slip quietly out of bed and pad my way downstairs to the kitchen. </p><p>For three years now, we’ve lived in this place. I don’t believe I’ll ever get used to the dead silence you get beside the bay. No traffic, only the rare droning of a boat’s engine in the early morning. We’re the only house for miles around, tucked into shrubbery and bordered by forest. When the sun comes up, it reflects blood red on the water.</p><p>Now’s the time where the sky begins to lighten, but you’re yet to see the sun. I chew aspirin dry, grimacing at the chalky taste. A habit I drilled into myself since as early as I can remember, rarely without some form of analgesic tucked between my molars. I don’t know why I put myself through it.</p><p>I stare out through the kitchen window, unseeing in truth. My mind is elsewhere. I have time off work to spend with Josh, who’s home for the holidays. To be honest, I don’t even need to work, with the compensation the Bureau paid out. But I need something to do. Being too much in the house drives me crazy. I start hearing things; although I’d never admit that to Molly.</p><p>It’s as I’m thinking this that I notice the dark shape against the gritty sand. Suddenly, I’m wide awake, the pain of my headache forgotten. I set the pack of painkillers down on the granite counter and rush to grab my coat and shoes. </p><p>Cayenne’s ears prick up, and her claws skitter across the floor as she gets up to follow me. When we moved again to Annapolis, Molly told me we couldn’t keep all the dogs. Her parents agreed to take on our German Shepherd, but the rest were going nowhere. I put on a brave face, but I had to stay home while she took the rest to the shelter. Cayenne let me cry into the scruff of her neck. </p><p>I love dogs, and I always have. Having her by my side relaxes me enough to approach this situation with a level head, and not recklessly barrel forward into trouble.</p><p>I know what I think I saw. I’m gritting my teeth, so I make the conscious effort to relax my jaw- probably part of the reason I keep getting all these headaches. The cold December air hits me hard, clawing at my face as I hurry down to the shore, pulling my coat closer around me.</p><p>Yes. It’s a person. </p><p>The part of me which I try so dearly to repress, the part of me which yearns for intellectual stimulation and mystery in place of motor oil and small talk- lights up with barely concealable excitement. Three years ago, I wanted nothing more than the guaranteed safety of myself and my family. But the monotony of civilian life lost its allure as the stitches turned to scarring, and memories faded to gray.</p><p>I kneel down in the damp sand. </p><p>The man washed up on the shore has dark curls matted thickly with saltwater and, as I reach out to rub crisp locks of it between my fingers, they come away red. He is wearing a shirt I believe was once white, but now it’s torn, waterlogged, and stained with blood. I can’t tell if it’s his.</p><p>His facial hair is neatly trimmed, and he has a strong jaw, with handsome features. His eyes are closed, so I can’t see what color they are. Cayenne noses at his neck, her tongue lolling out to taste salt and copper.</p><p>It’s worth mentioning that at this stage, I believe this man to be dead. Retrospectively I understand that to be a little strange, and certainly pessimistic. If I were to delve any deeper into that logic, I’d grimly acknowledge that this is perhaps so because I <em> wanted </em>him to be dead. I can never escape death when my subconscious craves the sight of it with the frightening intensity that it does.</p><p>The man’s eyes twitch open, with difficulty, as if his lashes are stuck together with salt. He begins to cough and retch onto the sand. In total shock, I stumble backwards. His gaze finds mine, bloodshot and wild, spitting out strings of bile.</p><p>Despite my fear, I note that his eyes are gray-green, similar to the color of the water on which he was carried here. </p><p>“Wait there,” I tell him. “Wait- I’ll get you to a hospital.”</p><p>I don’t wait for a response. My shoes are caked in mud and sand by the time I reach the house. Around that time, the guard finishes his patrol and looks completely taken aback to see me.</p><p>“Someone washed up from the lake,” I tell him, trying to catch my breath. “I have to take him to hospital.”</p><p>“I’m quite happy to do that, Mr. Graham.”</p><p>“No. No, you can’t. I don’t want you to leave my family here alone,” I shake my head. “I’m going to wake Molly up and tell her. Can you help me get him to the car?”</p><p>“Yes, of course.”</p><p>I let Cayenne back inside the house and run up the stairs, not bothering to take off my shoes. The light in the bedroom is on, and Molly is sitting up in bed, the comforter covering her breasts. “My God, Will, what’s going on?” she asks me, as I dress. Dimly, the thought occurs to me that my vest is inside-out. </p><p>“It’s okay. Everything’s fine. I saw a man washed up on the shore outside, and he’s still alive. I have to get him to a hospital.” I recognize the manic quality in the patterns of my speech, and try to slow my brain from working so fast. </p><p>“Hold on-”</p><p>“I can’t!” I call, already on my way back downstairs. </p><p>Brooke, the longest serving member on the team of guards the FBI kindly send to watch over my family, is waiting for me. He has the strange man’s arm around his shoulder, propping up his limp figure. </p><p>I help him to the car, opening the door so Brooke can deposit him into the backseat. I drive a third-hand Volkswagen, nothing special at all. Better to keep a low profile.  </p><p>“Keep your phone with you,” he tells me. I nod. </p><p>The nearest hospital is AAMC, and it’s quite the drive from our remote bayside cabin. I only hope he makes it. I glance at him in the rear-view mirror, with his chin on his chest. He is breathing, shallowly, but that does nothing to reassure me. After a near-drowning incident, pulmonary edema can still take place due to water inhalation, leading to further complications and even death.  </p><p>“What’s your name?” I ask him.</p><p>He tries to raise his head, with great effort, and his entire body is racked by a coughing fit. Politely, I keep my eyes on the road as it happens. </p><p>“Will,” he answers. His speech is rasping and gurgled. </p><p>I blink, unsure if he’s joking, but he remains stoically unamused. I give him a small smile. “That’s my name, too.”</p><p>We lapse back into silence as we hit the busier roads. A quick glance at my watch tells me it’s five thirty a.m. I wonder how long Will was lying on the ground, with grains of sand crushed against his cheek and palms, while the water lapped at his feet, freezing them into hypothermia.</p><p>How did he get here? Where is he from? Who is he? All these questions are on the tip of my tongue, and yet even I’ve the tact to wait until he’s halfway conscious. Time seems to crawl by as we are stuck behind traffic and more traffic. In my mind, I see Will’s lungs filling with fluid, choking him until he collapses, blue-faced. I can’t explain it, but the visceral fear that image gives me is enough to make me break the speed limit. Will is important. I don’t know how, or why. Only time will tell- all I have to do is find it. </p><p>When we arrive, I get out of the car and signal for someone to help me. They bring out a stretcher for him. He is wheeled away. The receptionist tells me they’ve taken him to the critical care ward. </p><p>When she asks me who I am, I answer with nothing but the truth. I have no idea who this man is. Pointing that out makes me wonder if he knows who <em> I </em>am. Years among case files and sociopaths makes me quick to suspicion. Molly calls it ‘paranoia’. </p><p>“You don’t have to stay. We’ll call his family.”</p><p>I give her a puzzled look. “How do you know he has family?”</p><p>She shrugs. “Suit yourself.”</p><p>I do. While I wait, I call my wife. She picks up on the first ring. </p><p>“Hey, tiger.”</p><p><em> “Will? </em> What the hell is going on?” She sounds furious. I can’t really blame her, not when I know her anger stems from fear. The fear that this family lives in perpetually.</p><p>I worry at my bottom lip with my teeth. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I saw someone laying face-down on the ground outside the house. I had to take a look. He was alive. I’m at the hospital now.”</p><p>Molly swears. If she was here with me, I wouldn’t smile, in case she thought I was laughing at her. But she can’t see me, so I do.</p><p>“It’s like we’re cursed,” she mutters. </p><p>“You mean me.” I’m hurt. I’m hurt and scared that she’s right. When I’m scared, I get mean. She knows that, but it doesn’t mean she’s going to put up with it till death does us part.</p><p>She sighs. I can almost see her pinching the bridge of her nose, pacing our kitchen. “When will you be home?”</p><p>“Soon. I don’t know.”</p><p>There’s a moment of silence, but I’m too distracted by the nurse coming through the double doors looking for someone. She catches my eye and raises a hand. </p><p>“Molly, I have to go,” I murmur. “I’ll see you later.”</p><p>“I hope so,” she says flatly, and hangs up. It leaves me feeling guilty and irritated, as it always does. But those feelings are quickly replaced by my quiet excitement and curiosity as I cross the floor to meet the nurse who attracted my attention.</p><p>“You brought Mr. Graham in, yes?” </p><p>I stare at her. She looks impatient, and loath to repeat herself.</p><p>“I’m sorry, what?”</p><p>“Will Graham, the man who almost drowned. He’s in intensive care. He said someone drove him here.”</p><p>“Yes, but…” I’m at a total loss for words. </p><p>“He told us he has no next of kin and no one to call. The receptionist said you were waiting for him to come out of intensive care. He’s ready, now; he got a lucky escape.”</p><p>In silence, I follow her to the ward in which Will is sitting. Through the window I see that he’s upright, and while his skin is pale, he looks remarkably more healthy than he did when I found him. They dressed him in a hospital gown. </p><p>
  <em> Comfortable. </em>
</p><p>The thought strikes me that he looks comfortable in the gown, as if he’s used to it. I frown and turn to the nurse. </p><p>“Did he give you that name?” I ask.</p><p>“Yes,” she replies, with a faint trace of exasperation. “I’m assuming you’ll take responsibility for taking him home?”</p><p>I shrug, and mutter distractedly, “Who else is going to do it?”   </p><p>Steeling myself, I open the door to his room. He follows me with his eyes, but I take no notice of it, and sit myself down in the chair beside his bed. I dislike hospitals, though I’ve spent my share of long, invariable hours within their pristine white walls. They remind me of a pain in my gut, and I feel anger twist its way through my stomach in the same way Dr. Lecter’s knife did, as I recall Freddy Lounds’ article and its accompanying photo. </p><p>I stop looking around the room and look Will in the face. He avoids eye contact. I can see him willing himself not to, and his eyes often flicker up with the intention of meeting mine, but some invisible force pushes them down again to study the pattern on his gown.</p><p>“Do you know my name?” </p><p>His jaw works before he answers me. When he does, it’s careful and measured. “Will.”</p><p>“No,” I shake my head, trying not to lose my patience. “My full name.”</p><p>He looks at me, then, if only for a moment. I curse the earnestness I see in his face. I know when he is lying. It doesn’t work with everyone, and lying is something to which I’d like to believe I’m immune, but Will is not much of a liar, and his honesty bleeds through every pore in his body.</p><p>If Will doesn’t know who I am, then how can we have the same name? I won’t even consider the idea that this is a coincidence. Not when it was me who found him. I imagine there are lots of Will Grahams, maybe even in Maryland. They are not washing up on the shore outside of my home.</p><p>Will breaks the silence. “When you found me, was I… alone?”</p><p>I narrow my eyes, curious to know the motivation behind the question while simultaneously avoiding it. “What happened to you?”</p><p>I see a flash of contempt cross his face. It makes me equal parts wary and excited. He is not what he seems. </p><p>“Please. Was I alone?”</p><p>Weighing it up, I see no harm in telling him, if he’ll answer my questions in return. For the first time since I was discharged from hospital and went straight to clear my desk three years ago, I feel like I’m really living. What’s alarming is how Will studies me: it seems he can see through my skin, past my skull, and into my brain. He visibly registers my barely-contained and feverish excitement, just with the furrowing of his brow. </p><p>“Yes,” I admit.</p><p>It isn’t the answer he wanted. His contempt disappears and is replaced by defeated bewilderment. He looks lost. </p><p>“Tell me your name, then,” he says. There’s a dry nihilism in it that I’ve often heard coloring my own words. I’m starting to feel apprehensive and out of my depth, as I ponder and perceive similarities between us.</p><p>“Will Graham.”</p><p>His head jerks up as if he was shot. He regards me, and if I didn’t know what he was doing, I’d squirm under the intensity of it. He is reading me. In the same way I read him. I let my fear show on my face, and that’s enough to confirm I’m telling the truth.</p><p>He clicks his tongue. There’s a shadow of a smile on his face. Lines take familiar paths to create it, as if he smiles like this often. It’s both sad and darkly amused, a kind of resignation in the hollow curve of his mouth. I notice that his eyes are shining with unshed tears, and he blinks deliberately to dispel them.</p><p>“I’ll figure it out,” I tell him quietly, uncomfortable witnessing his distress, even though it’s as minimal as I could ever wish for. It’s all I can think to say, and I know he won’t yet understand the weight behind it. I’m never one for empty promises, and I’m going to figure this one out if it kills me. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. WILL | II.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> "Truth can never be told so as to be understood and not be believed." </em>
</p><p>- William Blake</p><hr/><p>Two things become very obvious to me. Firstly, Will has no idea who I am. Secondly, he’s holding something back from me.</p><p>Details come to me in fragmented pieces. His calloused hands tells me he's done physical work, but they've softened enough that he's spent time outside of it. He has pale, thin puncture scars on his fingers, which remind me of how I always used to cut my hands on fishing hooks when I went to the docks with my father. His apparent dislike of eye contact suggests he is on the autism spectrum, and he talks in an excessively self-deprecating manner. But all of these things could be observed by a layman. I have this mental block when it comes to looking any closer, to analyze his motives or mental state. </p><p>I asked him where he lives. <em> Wolf Trap, Virginia. </em>So how did he end up in Chesapeake Bay, soaked in blood? That, he won’t answer. </p><p>“I can’t help you if you lie.”</p><p>“I can’t trust you,” he snaps. “I don’t know you.” He seems quick to regret his poor manners, a trait I recognize also within myself. </p><p>“If you don’t know me, then how do we share the same name?” I ask softly.</p><p>He exhales, unsteady and frayed with emotion. I watch him work through breathing exercises. <em> He has a history of mental illness. </em>I can’t seem to read him as easily as I would anyone else, but I’m making progress. I explain to him where he is and where I found him. His face turns somewhat pale, but his reaction is surprisingly muted. </p><p>“Where do you work?”</p><p>He snorts at that one; hinting there’s a story behind it. “Well… I <em> was </em>a consultant for the FBI.”</p><p>My heart sinks. “Consultant?”</p><p>“I didn’t pass the psychiatric evaluation…” he admits. “I have an empathy disorder. That’s, um. What they use me for. If you don’t believe me, you can look it up. There’s been extensive speculation over my condition.” That last part is spoken with distaste, belying negative experience under scrutiny of the media. None of this can be possible.</p><p>“An empathy disorder,” I repeat. </p><p>“It’s rare. The FBI uses it to help them catch killers. When they can’t find a motive, they turn to me. I can assume the point of view of a sociopath,” he swallows, “at great mental cost. I quit, actually.”</p><p>I’ve never heard my condition (“gift”, as Jack Crawford terms it; “curse” as I do) described in such terms. The information Will is giving me is difficult to process. The sounds of monitors and hushed discussion is putting me off, and under the harsh lighting, I feel my headache begin to return. </p><p>Hesitantly, Will asks me, “You haven’t heard anything about me?”</p><p>I look at him sharply. “Why should I?”</p><p>He shifts uncomfortably, debating whether or not to explain himself. </p><p>“Listen,” I interrupt, before he can say anything. “I really hate hospitals. Are you feeling up to getting out of here? Then we can talk.” </p><p>He smiles, then, genuinely, without any bitter edge to it. “Me too,” he answers. </p><p>Will is discharged from the hospital like he’s a hot coal in their hands. I guess they don’t want him taking up a whole bed any longer than he has to. They’ve treated his cuts and assessed his lungs for damage, and he seems to be in one piece. Still, I don’t approve of the way they released him into my custody as if he’s a child, instead of a vulnerable adult who claims he doesn’t even know who I am. The clothes they supplied are too big, and they dwarf his smaller frame.</p><p>On the way through the car park, I realize I’m at least a couple of inches taller than him. He carries himself in a way that takes up as little space as possible, eyes fixed on the ground as if the gravel is the most interesting thing in the world. <em> He knows I’m looking, and he’s letting me do it. </em>Will seems to understand that I’m trying to work him out.</p><p>When we get to the car, I stop and say, “I know Wolf Trap. It’s about an hour away. We could swing by, if you wanted.”</p><p>He looks at me over the top of the Volkswagen, jaw clenched, hesitating. I’m patient. He mutters, “Police might be there.”</p><p>“Drive by, then,” I amend, careful not to react. He grins at me, just for a second. </p><p>Will sits in the passenger seat, this time. The backseats are still wet from where his clothes soaked them through. He rests his head against the window while I drive, eyes closed and lashes casting shadow down his cheeks.</p><p>I start to consider the possibility that Will has some form of amnesia, and in the throes of it, he’s latched onto my identity. Perhaps he was reading Freddy Lounds’ article in Tattler before the waves tossed him around into rocks and a head injury. But the doctor told me he didn’t <em> have </em>any head injuries. And why would he term his condition an ‘empathy disorder’, when no one, myself included, has ever referred to it in such a way?</p><p>He said the police might be waiting at his home. I don’t want to scare him off. I can see he’s skittish, flighty, like a deer. I have to work on it. There’s no doubt in my mind that I <em> will </em>work on it- despite the danger, despite the fact that I’m supposed to be spending the holidays with my son. It’s a compulsion I have to obey, and I’m already preparing myself for Molly’s wrath. </p><p>Will, too, is thinking. He asks me questions in the hope that our answers will be the same. What he's trying to prove, what conclusion he's hoping to make, I cannot guess.</p><p>“Tell me your birthday on the count of three. One, two three.”</p><p>“December 6.” We say it at the exact same time. As far as I recall, that information has never been published anywhere outside my FBI profile. It’s still not enough to convince me. </p><p>Will isn’t put off by my lack of reaction. “Okay. Okay, then. What is your father’s name. One, two, three.” </p><p>“Joseph.”</p><p>I’m trying not to let it get to me, but there’s something indescribably thrilling about producing these answers in unprompted unison. My mind is working one hundred miles per hour trying to find a logical explanation for all of this. The amnesia theory is losing credibility by the minute. My parents’ names have never been disclosed to the public, nor the FBI. If pressed, I imagine Jack Crawford could remember what my father was called. Molly knows, of course. But who else? </p><p>“This means nothing,” I say, not taking my eyes off the road. “You could have just researched these things about me.”</p><p>“Don’t say that,” he whispers, passing a hand over his face in distress. “Favorite color. One, two, three.”</p><p>“Green.”</p><p>“See?” he exclaims. </p><p>I slam on the brakes, almost involuntarily. Cars blare their horns at me as they pass us by. I pull into the shoulder, my hands shaking as I grip the wheel. My mouth feels dry as I catch my breath, resting my chin on my chest and counting, counting to 100 until I can breathe again. </p><p>I can feel him staring at me, but I can’t bring myself to return his gaze. </p><p>“See,” he repeats, more of a whisper.</p><p>“Stop.”</p><p>
  <em> Climbing the stairs. Backup won’t get here fast enough. He’s holding a knife to her throat. I raise my gun. Shots ring out. They both fall to the floor.  </em>
</p><p>“See.” He says it again, and he grabs my wrist.</p><p>
  <em> See. See. Blood is dripping down his chest, staining the fabric of his shirt like an inkblot. I can’t tear my gaze away from his eyes until the light fades inside them. The girl is crying. See. See. </em>
</p><p>I wrench myself away from his grasp, snarling, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”</p><p>He says nothing until I force myself to look at him. “I didn’t mean to say that,” he tells me. There’s a calm reassurance in his tone that I expected him to need, rather than employ. “But I know why it scared you.”</p><p>“Somehow, you know everything about me,” I snap. I’m shaken to my core. I wasn’t expecting it, and hearing that word repeated took me back to the moment I killed Garrett Jacob Hobbs, and everything after it. The psychiatric hospital. My dreams. </p><p>The most accessible information about me is that I’m a killer. My name in any search engine brings up Garrett Jacob Hobbs and what happened that day. The way I broke down and had to be put away for a while. I’d like it stricken from any kind of record, but thanks to the Tattler, I’m doomed to have my reputation precede me unless I keep my head down. </p><p>What was never, ever mentioned, in any FBI file, newspaper article, blog, forum, or conversation, was what Hobbs said to me as he died. “See.” That one phrase will haunt me until the end of my days. And Will… </p><p>Thinking about it is too much for me to cope with right now. I find myself craving a stiff drink. </p><p>“I can’t talk about it,” I tell him, shortly.</p><p>He nods and settles back with his head against the window. He doesn’t need to say anything else. The seed has been sown in my mind. That somehow, we could be the same person. What began as the alluring mystery of the man from the bay is turning into something very sinister. I'm no longer sure if I want to be a part of it, but as Molly would say, <em> it doesn't matter what you want. You end up in the midst of it anyway. </em> I know she was right. I <em> am </em> cursed.</p><p>When we reach Will's home, I'm going to make a phone call. One I promised myself I'd never make again. Molly told me "I won't ask you to promise, because you'll feel guilty for breaking it." At the time, I got angry at her and told her she had no faith in me. I feel a pang of guilt, painful in my chest, as I realize she was justified.</p><p>Jack Crawford's number is seared into the back of my brain. I can't do this alone, and he's the only person who will help me- <em> us- </em> find the answers we're looking for.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. WILL | III.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>“Can I see another's woe, and not be in sorrow too?” </em>
</p><p> - William Blake</p>
<hr/><p>We make near the rest of the journey in total, uninterrupted silence. It takes a long time before I can relax my grip on the wheel. </p><p>Will gives me quiet, precise instructions to get to his home. It’s a farmhouse, set back from the main road, isolated and tranquil. Not unlike my own cabin. There is no police presence that I can detect, and the house is dark, unoccupied.</p><p>Will asks me if I have a gun. I hadn’t thought to bring a weapon with me. He shakes his head, grimly telling me he isn’t expecting company, but it never hurts to come prepared.</p><p>“Do you ever have trouble around here?” </p><p>“Of sorts.”</p><p>I find Will’s cryptic responses to be endearing instead of off-putting. He seems wary, but keen to connect with me. I get the impression that he has few friends. It's something I can relate to. </p><p>According to Will, there is a key buried under the decking of the verandah. It is the sixth board from the left, he tells me. We pry it up and sure enough, the rusted key is laying in the dirt. It strikes me as unusual to leave a key in such a place. Not easy to access in the way it would be if it was under the welcome mat, or beneath a flower pot, but safe to leave for long periods of time in case you ever needed it. I glean from this that Will suspected he might need more than one means of access to his house.  </p><p>He has a little trouble opening the door, fitting the key into the lock. I wonder when he was last here. </p><p>Inside, the electricity has been cut off. It's a grim day, so it's difficult to see without the lights. A fine layer of dust covers tables, cupboards, picture frames with figures I don't recognize staring back at me. </p><p>I'm too absorbed in my observations to notice that Will is standing in the middle of the room, motionless. </p><p>I glance up in time to witness his panic attack. He sinks to the floor and wraps his arms around himself in an effort to self-soothe. In the oppressive darkness of unlit scenes of crime, I’ve done the same. </p><p>I crouch down beside him. </p><p>"Everything's okay," I tell him firmly. </p><p>"This isn't my house," he gasps out, muffled against his sleeves. "It's not- I don't live here." </p><p>I glance around the room again. I couldn't say whether or not this place suited him, but it's true that he isn't in any of the pictures. But how did he know where the key was? Nothing adds up. Every time his story begins to unravel, we encounter something completely inexplicable. </p><p>"Just- just try and breathe," I murmur, uselessly. "I told you I was going to work this out. Trust me. Everything's gonna be fine." </p><p>He scoffs, and it borders on a sob. "You don't understand. I don't belong here. I'm-" </p><p>I take him by his forearms and gently tug them away from his face. At first, he shies away, but eventually he lets me do it, while he stares blankly at the walls, silently crying. </p><p>"Explain to me what's happened. That's the only way I can fix it."</p><p>He exhales through his nose, and then wipes it on his sleeve, along with his tears, leaving the fabric damp and slimy. I wait patiently for him to finish his relaxation techniques, taking time to complete my own. I’m not unaffected. This is starting to scare me, too.</p><p>"I did something terrible. With someone. And I knew… the only way to stop him was to take him with me. So I threw us both off a cliff, into the sea, or battered against the rocks. I can't remember. But I woke up and… you were there. And he was gone."</p><p>"This terrible thing that you did… was that why you thought the police might be here?" </p><p>He nods, wiping his nose again and rubbing at his eyes till they're shining and red. He turns his face towards me, even if he still can't meet my gaze. </p><p>I let go of his wrists so I can give him some space. My instinctive reaction is to call Jack and find out if there have been any other bodies washed up on shores. But I also feel compelled to protect Will, and make sure he isn't committed to a psych ward when I know something more than mental illness is at play. </p><p>"I want to call a friend at the FBI," I venture. </p><p>"Jack Crawford," Will guesses, so lifeless and tired it doesn’t even sound like a question. </p><p>I steel myself against any surprise, because the rational cynic at the back of my mind warns me that my association with Jack is well-documented and not difficult to uncover. The part of me that I trust more than anything, which runs on instinct and innate gift, tells me Will simply <em> knows </em>Jack, or a version of him. </p><p>I nod minutely. "We can trust him."</p><p>"I'm wanted for murder," Will rasps. </p><p>"No, you're not. I would know about it if someone called<em> Will Graham </em>was wanted for murder. I'd be the first suspect in line," I bank on him understanding what that's like, to be othered and alienated to the point where whispers of psychopathy follow you everywhere. </p><p>He manages a weak smile. "Call him, then."</p><p>I’m trying to be the adult, here, to project confidence and reassurance in the presence of someone whose life is falling apart. But I’m conscious of the fragility of my own psyche, and I know I can’t cope with this alone. </p><p>Jack is pleased to hear from me. I think he worries that I hate him. He has no qualms with putting me into traumatic situations, and yet his fondness for me is very real. The irony of the person putting me into danger being also the person who cares most for my wellbeing is difficult to stomach. Sometimes I can hear the resentment in my voice when we talk, but I know I can’t blame anyone other than myself for what’s happened.</p><p>It’s very hard to explain what exactly is going on. I’m vague and cryptic, aware that this story is pretty hard to believe, and Jack’s hyper vigilant when it comes to any perceived deterioration of my mental state. He was the one who recommended I spend time in the mental hospital. I refused, flat out. He said, <em> I’m not your father, Will. I’m not gonna tell you what you ought to do.  </em></p><p>I stayed there for four weeks.</p><p>“Will, I have all the time in the world for you,” Jack tells me. “But right now we’re dealing with something pretty big. Rogue agents, death threats, you know how it is.”</p><p>“Is that so?”</p><p>“I was thinking of giving you a call. But I thought better of it,” he adds, hastily. “I didn’t want to drag you into any of this again. Can I call you later?”</p><p>“Tell me what’s happening.” I glance at Will from the kitchen, who is still sitting on the living room floor. I bite the inside of my cheek. Something tells me his relationship with reality is strained at best, and it makes my heart ache for him. </p><p>Jack deliberates. If only I could see him, I could deduce whether or not the deliberation was cursory, or genuine. “I actually can’t tell you, because we believe the suspect is someone working for the Bureau, or at least someone who <em> used </em>to work for us.”</p><p>I swallow, mouth dry. “I don’t even know what you’re suspecting me of.”</p><p>Jack snorts as if the suggestion is absurd instead of frighteningly plausible. He has a faith in me I don’t quite have in myself. “I’m not,” he replies simply. “I’ve got to be careful, though. You want in, get down to Quantico.”</p><p>I sigh. “I don’t think…”</p><p>“I know. I’ll call you back, kid.”</p><p>“I’m thirty-six.”</p><p>He laughs and rings off. I find my way back to Will, who’s subdued and distant. </p><p>“Do you know Jack?” I ask him gently.</p><p>“Not the one you were speaking to.” </p><p>“What are you saying?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” he shrugs, fraught with misery. “All I know is that I don’t belong here. Nothing is right. This is… this is your world, not mine.”</p><p>Will is like breakable porcelain, but I still don’t think he’s delusional. Something about the defeat in his tone suggests he doesn’t think it’s worth trying to convince me, because he knows how far-fetched it all is. You live by the things you know to be true, but after this, I can’t be certain that I know anything at all. </p><p>I could really use Jack’s help, but I’m content to wait for his call. There’s never any peace at Quantico. I don’t know what we can do in the meantime. I can’t bring Will home to my family, because I swore I’d keep them safe. I don’t believe him to be malicious, but he’s unstable. Besides, I’ve been known to make mistakes. My run-in with Dr. Lecter will haunt me for the rest of my life, and this was a man I once considered a friend and mentor. I was stupid. All I can do is stop myself from making the same mistake. </p><p>“Jack’s busy right now, but he’s going to call me,” I explain. “He’ll help us figure out what happened to you. How you got here. You just have to sit tight and hang in there, okay?” I worry that he’s given up already.  </p><p>“I just want to go home,” Will responds, muted and morose. He rests his chin on his knees, staring at the grooves in the wooden floorboards, and the patterns on the rug.</p><p>My phone starts ringing, which startles the both of us. I assume it’s Jack, but the screen reads a number I’m not familiar with. Normally, I’d ignore it, but I get the strong sense this might be important. </p><p>“Will Graham,” I offer, cautiously.</p><p>“Hi, Will.” It’s a woman. I think I recognize her voice but I can’t really place it. Southern. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Agent Starling from the Bureau.”</p><p>Clarice Starling. Yes, I remember her, and everything I heard about her since I retired.</p><p>“I don’t know if anyone told you,” she continues, sounding slightly apprehensive, “But we’ve got a real problem on our hands right now. Someone with inside information made an attempt on Dr. Lecter’s life. A guard was killed.”</p><p>I realize I’m grinding my teeth and I make the conscious effort to stop and steady my voice before I answer. “Can’t say I’m sorry to hear that.”</p><p><em> She wants something. </em> I feel sick. <em> What does she want? Why do I have to keep hearing his name? </em></p><p>“I understand, Mr. Graham. Believe me when I say this was a last resort. Nobody wanted to involve you. I had to, uh, take matters into my own hands.”</p><p>“Involve me <em> how?” </em>Will glances up at me, scrutinising, trying to guess why I’d take such an aggressive tone.</p><p>Clarice takes a moment before she responds. “Dr. Lecter had to be moved. The Bureau’s somewhat lax when it comes to protecting those citizens who are criminals. But I couldn’t take him to an FBI safehouse, because the killer has access to our records.”</p><p>“Won’t you just get to the point?”</p><p>“I’m driving him to a safehouse that’s not in the records.”</p><p>She’s apologizing. The words are thick with guilt and embarrassment, but still edged with her trademark courage. </p><p>It’s easy to put two and two together. Clarice knows my home in Annapolis used to be an FBI safehouse. I guess it technically still is, seeing as there’s always an agent patrolling it. She needs somewhere to take Dr. Lecter that is safe, but under the radar of anyone with insider information. The peace I find with my family is being disrupted again by the actions of murderers and sociopaths. As of this moment, my home no longer belongs to me.</p><p>I’m silent for so long that she asks if I’m still there.</p><p>“Does Jack know about this?” The utter lack of inflection in my voice is disturbing even to me. Will’s gaze never leaves my face.</p><p>Clarice clears her throat. “No one knows about it. I came to this decision myself.”</p><p>“Turn the car around right now, Clarice, or you’ll be sorry.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, Will. I can’t do that.”</p><p>I throw my mobile across the room and it smashes into tiny pieces. A moment passes before I hurl a picture frame at the wall, taking savage pleasure in the sound of glass breaking. Will flinches, but says nothing. </p><p>I put my head in my hands, claw at my hair. I broke my phone and now I can’t warn Molly of the evil on its way to our doorstep. I curse Clarice for dragging me back into this mess, I curse Jack for getting me into it. I curse Dr. Lecter for hurting me, and I curse myself for ever trusting him.</p><p>“What happened?” Will ventures. </p><p>I shake my head. I try to answer him, but I can’t even get the words out. It’s probably for the best, since I can feel the bitterness of my reply burning my tongue. I’m so, so angry, I don’t think I should even be driving. But I will, because I have to go back to Annapolis, to make sure Molly and Josh are okay, and take Dr. Lecter back where he belongs.</p><p>Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane; or as far away from me as humanly possible. Either will suffice.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. CLARICE | I.</h2></a>
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    <p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>An opal holds a fiery spark;</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But a flint holds fire.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span> - Christina Rosetti</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>From what I know, Will Graham is a good man. From what I hear, he’s something of an enigma. Everyone I ever spoke to at the Bureau had some opinion on him, whether they’d ever had a conversation with him or not. To some, he was ‘shy’ and ‘nervous’. To others, he was ‘aloof’ and ‘actually kind of rude’. The general consensus was that he lacked in the social skills department, but more than made up for it with his astonishing talent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That talent is getting into the minds of killers. Those who maim, torture and murder without qualm. I’ve learned that it takes its toll, and Will could only take so much before he had to bow out. I always thought I’d like to meet him, but it seems those circumstances are going to be far from pleasant.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a year now, I’ve had my credentials as an agent. Most of my experiences have been inextricably tied to one particular patient at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Doctor Hannibal Lecter is an esteemed psychiatrist, skilled chef, and notorious serial murderer. Aptly dubbed “Hannibal the Cannibal”, he has been convicted for 9 murders, 3 attempted murders, and is widely known for eating his victims. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dr. Lecter and I’s relationship is such that he would resent my wording. “Eating, Ms. Starling, isn’t the half of it.” I often hear his voice in the back of my mind. You probably think I’m crazy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He likes to turn the meat of his victims into elaborate, gourmet meals, worthy of the greatest chefs in the world. He didn’t often prey on those he believed to be innocent; but those he considers, in his own words, ‘rude’. For this reason I try my best to be courteous during our brief interactions. Speaking with Dr. Lecter is like skating on a frozen lake. One misstep, and you are plunging into the water.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes he asks me about Will. I know he sends letters, too, but whether he ever responds, I couldn’t say. I tell him I don’t know Will, and only Jack could ever be in contact with him, although I get the impression that their relationship has also broken down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where are we going, Agent Starling?” Lecter asks me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is a glint in his maroon eyes which belies the innocent tone. He’s bound- handcuffs, straitjacket, zip-ties, hockey mask and all. I’m under no illusion that I’d already be dead if that’s how he wanted me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The journey isn’t long, and I believe he’ll soon figure it out. Jack Crawford’s message replays over and over in my mind. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m disappointed in you, Clarice. I thought you were smarter than to let Lecter get into your head. Bring him back and we can work something out.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack knows as well as I do that if I do take him back, he’ll be dead within the week. The hospital has the most stringent security measures employed by any institution in the world. It’s necessary when you’re housing half of the most deadly and dangerous killers America has ever seen. And yet somehow, someone managed to get past it. Simply waltz in and take their time to kill the guard on duty and arrange him into a grisly, unmissable warning. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dr. Lecter’s life is in danger. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Tattler enjoyed spinning the tale of our tumultuous, beauty-and-the-beast affair. They embellished the details of our conversations, recorded without either of our knowledge or consent, and painted me as his unsuspecting victim. I can tell that Jack is beginning to believe it. But he doesn’t know what I know. Keeping Hannibal Lecter alive is absolutely paramount to understanding what I’ve discovered.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It didn’t require any elaborate scheming or extortion. I quickly realized that the Bureau is so desperate to keep this under wraps, it would remain a complete secret that Hannibal Lecter had left his cell so much as to go for a cigarette. The most difficult part was convincing him to cooperate. I chose my words carefully. He appreciates honesty, so that’s what he got. I think he is amused, curious; and will quite happily assist anyone on the way to destroying their life and career. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Barney Matthews helped me secure Lecter for transportation. He did not question the fact that I was acting alone, or I had nothing but a Buick to put him in. He assumed the point of this transfer was that it had to be discreet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We pass a sign to Annapolis, and my passenger begins to laugh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, Clarice. Your boldness will never cease to astound me,” he drawls. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The cat is out of the bag. I pull over and make a phone call. As I wait for Will to pick up, I briefly wonder if Dr. Lecter feels any fear for his life.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. WILL | IV</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>“Better to shun the bait than struggle in the snare.”</em>
</p><p>- William Blake</p>
<hr/><p>Wolf Trap is a cold and lonely place. I can see that it’s settled in Will’s heart as much as he has settled in it. They are too alike; crying out for people to warm them. </p><p>The payphone works. My pocket change disappears into the machine and mercifully I’m met with my wife’s tired, confused affirmative.</p><p>"Molly, it’s me.”</p><p>She doesn’t say anything. I feel bile rise in my throat, but I wrangle my voice into sounding calm and authoritative. “You have to take Josh and go to your parents’ house, okay? Please.”</p><p>“You have to tell me what’s going on. I can’t live like this.”</p><p>“I know.” I whisper. “I know. I can’t either. I hate it. But the house isn’t safe right now. You’ve got to go as soon as you can. It’s not gonna be for long, I swear.”</p><p>"I'll do what you say. But when this blows over, we need to talk." I hate the way she sounds so resigned. Other women would panic and rage. Molly is used to it, and that breaks my heart.</p><p>"I'm sorry,” I tell her. “I love you." </p><p>"I love you too." </p><p>Hearing her say it makes me feel better and worse at the same time. Sometimes I wish she’d just hate me, for all the guilt I feel for putting her through it. </p><p>I hurry back to the car. Will follows me silently. I see him coiled tight with the burning itch to ask questions, but the self-discipline to recognize my unchecked anger. </p><p>Part of me wishes I could be alone right now. Alone with my thoughts and maybe a bottle. The rest acknowledges that he is my canary in the coal mine, and he’ll stop me from doing something stupid. </p><p>I think he is reluctant and relieved to leave Wolf Trap. It's familiar, and terrifyingly alien at the same time. </p><p>When we reach my home, it's deserted save for Brooke. The man looks deeply confused, and even more so when he sees my companion. </p><p>"Anybody gonna tell me what's going on?" </p><p>"Your guess is as good as mine," Will replies. </p><p>"We're about to have an unexpected visit," I answer grimly. </p><p>"From whom?" </p><p>"An old friend," I shrug. "Wait here, Brooke, while I get my gun." </p><p>I wasn't a bad shot at the Academy. They insisted I had basic weapons training and I knew they were impressed with me, for a rookie from the labs. I didn't even need a gun to disable Lecter. I hope he still feels that pain in his gut every time he pulls the skin taught. </p><p>I wonder about giving Will a pistol, but I think better of it. I can't trust him. Can't trust anyone. </p><p>We hold our silent vigil until I see it way down the dirt track leading up to our cabin. A black Buick. Unmistakably FBI. Brooke and I aim our guns. </p><p>She stops the car a little way from the house. The sight of her walking towards me, the audacity of it, forces me to put my weapon down in case my trigger finger slips.</p><p>“Mr. Graham, I really didn’t want to put you through this,” Clarice Starling tells me. </p><p>“I hear that a lot,” I say evenly. “And yet here you are, putting me through it.”</p><p>She averts her eyes, and nods to acknowledge the truth in what I’m saying. She studies the three of us for a moment, and I can see the cogs working behind her eyes. She takes a deep breath and starts, “I really think you should hear what I have to say. If you don’t help me, I’ll lose my job and God knows what else. I wouldn’t risk it if I didn’t think it was important, you understand.”</p><p>I heard about Jack’s replacement for me. I don’t mean to sound bitter, because I really am glad to have quit. But it still smarts to know that after everything I went through, Jack switched me out for a newer, hardier model. Does she know that he’ll continue to do so? Every protégé likes to believe they’re the favorite, the most loved, the most useful. I wonder if Clarice knows that she’s expendable. If she knows, like me, and doesn’t care.</p><p>I saw her on T.V. after they caught Buffalo Bill. She killed him while he chased her with infrared goggles in the pitch darkness. In the interview, she was calm, if not spirited, in a way that screamed ‘issues with authority’. But I knew then that she was better than me. She could go to sleep that night and she wouldn’t fear that Jame Gumb had become a part of her, wearing her like a skin.</p><p>“You can’t bring him into my house,” I tell her.</p><p>She gives me a pained look. “I can’t leave him there. You know him.” </p><p>I do know him. And she’s right. He’d be out within minutes. His last escape plan went off without a hitch, resulting in the gruesome deaths of two guards, until the Bureau caught up with him at the airport. All it took was one sharp object. Then he liked to improvise; usually with his teeth.</p><p>“Then take him to the basement with Brooke. I don’t want him to see me or talk to me. You have fifteen minutes to explain yourself before I call Jack.”</p><p>I don’t return her small, grateful smile. She goes with Brooke to the car.</p><p>“Come on,” I mutter to Will. Cayenne is barking, but she calms when she sees me. We go into the house, leaving the door open and waiting in the kitchen while they take him down to the basement. There isn’t much down there, save for a lot of old boxes full of fishing equipment, and a wooden table they should cuff him to.</p><p>Brooke stays down there. He’s a good man, calm and strong. I wouldn’t risk leaving anyone alone with Lecter for more than a few minutes.</p><p>I sit the three of us down in the living room. I’m painfully aware of Molly’s absence. </p><p>“This is Will,” I inform Clarice. “Don’t ask. It’s another thing I’m trying to work out.”</p><p>Her mouth quirks in a wry smile. “One thing at a time.”</p><p>“Exactly. Now will you please tell me why you thought it was appropriate to bring a serial murderer into my home? I have a wife and son, you know. He’s fourteen.”</p><p>She shakes her head. “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”</p><p>I stare at her, stony-faced.</p><p>“Early this morning, a guard was killed at the mental hospital where Dr. Lecter is a patient.”</p><p>Will whispers, <em> oh my God. </em>Clarice and I pause to look at him. His face is ashen. </p><p>“What is it?” I demand.</p><p>He shakes his head, covering his mouth with his hands in shock. “N-nothing. Just... carry on.”</p><p>I’m concerned, and interested in his reaction. I decide to let it go for now. Too much is happening at once. </p><p>“The guard’s name was Tom Underhill. Nobody saw who did it, and no one was signed in on the records apart from the guards, nurses and psychiatrists working that day. It happened in the earliest hours of the morning, at around 1 to 2 a.m. The killer slit Underhill’s throat- no inmate reported hearing sounds of a struggle- and put him in a wheelchair. He dislocated the victim’s jaw and tilted his head back, so it looked as if he was screaming. I didn’t have time to bring pictures with me, but I can get some.”</p><p>I set my jaw.</p><p>“With a scalpel, the killer then cut this Bible verse into the victim’s arm. “Exodus 20:3”. I haven’t had time to look that one up, although I know the BSU is all over it. If my memory of Sunday School serves correctly, it could be a Commandment.”</p><p>Will gets up and goes over to my bookshelf, glancing back at me for permission. I nod. He spots the Bible, thick with dust and pristine pages, and takes it back to his chair. Clarice continues to speak while he searches for the passage.</p><p>“The killer positioned Underhill’s left arm to point with its index finger, the Bible verse clearly visible with his sleeve rolled up. He then took the victim down to the lowest floor of the hospital, where the most dangerous patients are housed. From the end of the corridor, he pushed the wheelchair until it stopped outside Dr. Lecter’s cell. The arm points at Dr. Lecter. He informed us of Underhill’s death almost immediately, but he didn’t see the perpetrator.”</p><p>“‘Thou shalt have no other gods before me’,” Will quotes. </p><p>“This is all fascinating, but I don’t see what’s causing you to interpret that as a direct threat to Dr. Lecter’s life. If the killer wanted him dead, he could have easily killed him, having murdered a guard and therefore gotten the keys to access his cell. I also can’t fathom why you would have him removed from a maximum security hospital and taken to an unprotected log cabin in the middle of nowhere,” I deadpan.</p><p>“Well, that’s quite simple,” Clarice sighs. “In response to the latter, this safehouse is no longer in any records. That means the killer won’t track Lecter down.”</p><p>I raise an eyebrow to that ridiculously naïve assumption. </p><p>“It will take him longer,” she amends. “As to the former… Dr. Lecter himself can answer that question.”</p><p>“I don’t want to talk to him.”</p><p>“Then we’re going to have a problem. He has information, but he’ll only speak to you.”</p><p> I bark out a laugh. Of course he’ll only speak to me. How else will he have his fun?</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. HANNIBAL | I.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I wept not, so to stone within I grew.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>- Dante Alighieri </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>To the untrained eye, the man in the cell was asleep. The lights were out, the place was reasonably quiet save for an inmate's ceaseless murmuring in the far corner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man did not move a muscle. You would have to look closely to determine if he even drew breath, so subtle was the rise and fall of his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the gory scenes playing out in his mind, his heart rate was steady and relaxed. His hands were clasped over his abdomen, and his eyes were closed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He imagined taking great pleasure in eviscerating Dr. Frederick Chilton. He often posed his victims in a bloody, sadistic fashion, but he didn't torture any more than necessary. With the hack psychiatrist, though, he would take his sweet time. If it were possible, he'd take as long destroying Chilton as Chilton had attempted to destroy him. Mind games and blackmail. Lecter would use him as a guinea pig to find out just how much damage the internal organs could take before the body succumbs to death. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lecter received thousands of letters. Often they were budding young students looking for a quote to proudly display in their dissertations. Many were the desperate journos looking for an exclusive with Hannibal the Cannibal in an attempt to salvage their poor sales figures. Some were love letters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The letter which Chilton had snatched away from him certainly felt like a love letter. Lecter should have liked to treasure it in the same way he treasures Will Graham's rare correspondence, when he's neck-deep in the bottle and his masochistic streak rears its ugly head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you have any idea who might have sent this?" Chilton demanded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lecter smiled and said nothing. Chilton took away his books and the rest of the letters he was working his way through. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He returned hours later and asked again. This time, he took away Lecter's toilet seat. It was all agonisingly predictable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was another week before Underhill appeared, bloody and broken jaw torn open in a silent scream. Exodus 20:3. Lecter knew it well. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thou shalt have no other gods before me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>While he refused to converse with Chilton on principle, he was quite amenable to discussing the matter with Agent Starling. She was fully qualified now. He felt a genuine pride towards her. He delighted in their rapport, and the way her feelings for him developed into something conflicting and fond. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The icing on the proverbial cake occurred twenty miles into their journey. Clarice was taking him to see Will. She was risking her life and career for this. As he waited, bound in the backseat, he pondered ways to thank her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chilton has always maintained that Hannibal Lecter is a textbook sociopath. Devoid of emotion, incapable of love, a monster in the most complete sense of the word. Lecter assigns himself no such label. If he is not capable of love, then why does he always want to ease Will's pain as much as he wants to cause it? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will looks better fed and his skin has regained its color from days working out in the sun. There is dirt under his fingernails, and he has put on a little weight. Physically, he is healthy, but Lecter sees his mental anguish like a dark cloud poised over his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is three years since they last met. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks at Lecter with a singular, wrathful conviction. It says,<em> you are the only person in the world who knows the lengths I go to to stop myself from killing. But if I were to give in to the temptation, it would only ever be for you.</em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as the letter had suggested, there is another man at Will's side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lecter knows immediately who he is. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. WILL | V.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“For all eternity, I forgive you and you forgive me.”</p><p> - William Blake</p><hr/><p>Clarice understands Lecter’s desire for privacy in conversation. She asks me if it’s okay to prepare us all a meal, while she leaves me alone to talk. What do I care? This isn’t my domain any more, filled as it is with strangers, and devoid of family.</p><p>She removes Lecter’s mouth-guard and leaves with the other two. I step in as close as I’m willing, which is still a decent few yards back from him. For some time, we regard each other. I’m working up to a point where I can stand to talk with him, to hear his voice again. </p><p>
  <em>Don’t move. You’re in shock, now. I don’t want you to feel any pain. In a moment, you’ll begin to be light-headed. Then drowsy. Don’t resist. It’s so gentle… like slipping into a warm bath.</em>
</p><p>He doesn’t look as if he has aged all that much. Me, I know, I look ten years older. At the Bureau, you are only young in death. </p><p>“It’s good to see you, Will,” he tells me. I know that’s the God’s honest truth, which is what he wants from me, so I don’t return the sentiment. </p><p>
  <em>Shh, shh. I regret that it came to this, Will. But every game must have its ending. </em>
</p><p>I know that Lecter can see all of this playing across my face, as it plays in technicolor behind my eyelids. I wait for it to pass. He waits too, no doubt recalling the same scene, without so much panic. There is a phantom pain in my stomach, where a linoleum knife bit into my flesh.</p><p>
  <em>Remarkable boy. I do admire your courage.</em>
</p><p>It isn’t the idea of talking with him which frightens me, but the knowledge that it will be so easy. He believes we are one and the same. I think about it all the time, that he really didn’t want it to hurt. In his own way, he would like to think that he loves me, and wants the best for me. </p><p>I open my eyes. I’m ready now. </p><p>“Agent Starling told me you wanted to speak with me,” I prompt.</p><p>“Do you know about the phases of scar tissue formation?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“But you’ve seen it happen. I’d quite like to see your scar, Will.”</p><p>“Dr. Lecter, do you know where you are?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“You’re in my home. You’re one floor beneath the table I sit at to eat dinner with my family. You are two floors beneath the bathroom where my son brushes his teeth, and the room in which I sleep with my wife. You belong behind glass. Give me something to go on, or I’ll make certain you’ll be in the <em>ground.”</em></p><p>Dr. Lecter nods, visibly pleased by my outburst. “From the window of Agent Starling’s car, I couldn’t help but notice you had someone accompanying you. Not the guard. The young man.” </p><p>As I begin to object, he says, “No, Will, this is relevant. I’m quite sure I could tell you his name. Wouldn’t you find that interesting?”</p><p>I swallow, dry. “Go on, then.”</p><p>“His name’s the same as yours.”</p><p>“How on <em>earth </em>do you know that?” I grit out.</p><p>“Curious, isn’t it? The concept that there may be other versions of ourselves. Not just by name, but by character.”</p><p>“You met another you.”</p><p>Dr. Lecter seems to revile the suggestion. “There is no other me, Will, just as there is no other you. God is playing a cruel game and letting people slip through the cracks of their own universe into another.”</p><p>“How can that be possible?”</p><p>“Bring your friend down here, and let us find out.”</p><p>I hold his gaze for a moment. In this light, his eyes are almost black. I turn away and call Will down the stairs. </p><p>He is nervous, which is good. Letting your guard down around Dr. Lecter is as good as signing your own death warrant. I stop him from getting too close. </p><p>“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Will,” Dr. Lecter says. “How did you find yourself here?”</p><p>“I washed up on the shore outside.”</p><p>“And Will took you under his wing. How selfless.” His eyes flicker to mine for a moment, before he turns his attention back to Will. I watch him taking in details, reading Will as if he were a book. What he sees amuses him, I can tell by the upward slant to his mouth.</p><p>“I received a letter recently. Dr. Chilton was quick to remove it from my possession, as it contained… personal information, that I had never revealed.” He looks displeased. “It is simply impossible for anyone to know these things about me. Anyone who might is either dead, or me.”</p><p>Will listens.</p><p>“The author of the letter, whose identity I am yet to discover, made quite the prediction. He or she suggested that somewhere in this world, another Will Graham would show up. Perhaps his appearance would be drastically different, and your life experiences wouldn’t match up completely, but there would be unexplainable details that connected the two of you. Most importantly, they would share the same gift. <em>Do </em>you share that gift?”</p><p>Will shifts uncomfortably. “It’s an empathy disorder.”</p><p>“So you do. That’s astounding.”</p><p>“Do you know how I got here?” Will asks. His straightforward innocence is captivating to Dr. Lecter, that much I can tell. For someone accustomed to my own doubtful suspicion, and Clarice’s perpetual courtesy, pure and blunt honesty must be refreshing.</p><p>“I’m afraid I don’t.” He sounds regretful. Chilton believes his emotions are counterfeit and manufactured, but I know him well enough to admit that he has a twisted way of caring. “But I would sorely love to help you find out. I can entertain myself and have done so for many years, but nothing quite matches the intellectual challenge of a criminal case.”</p><p>“Where do you suggest we start?” I interrupt.</p><p>“Alone in the dark with Underhill. Perhaps if you work together, you’ll get there faster.”</p><p>“And then?”</p><p>“Take the letter Chilton confiscated from me. Bring it back. It’s the most valuable insight into this killer’s identity.”</p><p>I take a moment to process, considering how this can work. Molly and Josh will have to stay with my in-laws for a while longer. I will need increased security and surveillance on the house, without drawing attention, and round-the-clock guards to take care of Lecter. I will not be able to sleep. Where will Will sleep? Should I keep Clarice with me, on hand when and if we need her, the only hope of calming a feral Lecter?</p><p>“You’ve killed before,” Lecter suddenly says. A chill runs down the length of my spine. It’s not me he’s addressing.</p><p>Will is silent. I watch him, and the longer the seconds pass without his denial, the stranger I feel. </p><p>“More than once,” Lecter adds, smiling now, with teeth and glee. “You fought the urge for a long time, but you stopped. Why did you stop?” </p><p>Will averts his gaze.</p><p>“Hmm… a protégé, then. You killed <em>for </em>someone. Much like a proposal. I almost envy the strength of that bond.” He tries to lean forward as much as he can while cuffed to the table and restricted by the straitjacket. “Will wouldn’t kill for anyone other than himself. You’re decent, it’s written plainly on your face, but Will spends every moment of his life craving to know what it’s like to feel blood on his hands. Don’t you, Will? Don’t you wish you could tear my heart out, right at this moment?”</p><p>Now I feel light-headed and faint. There’s only enough oxygen down here for the spiders who spin their webs between the old wooden beams. There’s no one in this world I hate but him.</p><p>“How can anyone assume the mind of a sociopath, unless he himself is one? He’d like to ask you if it’s worth it. If killing is as good as he imagines it must be.”</p><p>“This has been most illuminating, Doctor,” I hiss. My voice is wrecked, shaking like a leaf. “If you’ve nothing of use, that will be all.”</p><p>“It’s only useless if you deign not to use it. Fighting your very nature is a commendable effort, but you’ll only fall further when you inevitably lose.”</p><p>I clench my teeth so hard my jaw begins to hurt. It’s Will who touches my arm and guides me away from the presence of evil.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. CLARICE | II.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em> “Where there are no God, we would be in this glorious world with grateful hearts and no one to thank.” </em>
</p><p>- Christina Rosetti</p><hr/><p> </p><p>Michael Brooke is a veteran; a tall, bald African American man whose presence I recall at many Academy lectures. I hadn’t thought about him at all, unaware of his retirement. He must be in his late fifties by now.</p><p>I wonder if he remembers me. Then he says, “You’re Starling, aren’t you? I remember you.”</p><p>I smile, a little tired. “That means a lot, sir.”</p><p>“Oh God, don’t call me sir. Tell me what’s going on, instead.”</p><p>I hesitate, and he sees me do it.</p><p>“You know Will? We’ve known each other for a good few years. Every couple of months they’d station a guard out here and Will would find some way to fall out with them. They all quit, said he was neurotic. I’ve been here for two years now. He brings me coffee, brings me breakfast. His wife waves at me when she goes to work. His kid calls me Mike. If something’s gonna happen to Will, or Will’s family, I have to know about it.”</p><p>I sigh. “I can’t tell you everything. He’s the only person who’s supposed to know.”</p><p>“Tell me what you can. If there’s a way I can help.”</p><p>“Will and Dr. Lecter need to work together to catch a killer, but it isn’t safe to keep Dr. Lecter at the hospital. We’ll increase the FBI presence here just enough to keep an eye on him so Will can sleep at night, but not enough to draw attention.”</p><p>Brooke nods slowly. </p><p>“All you need to do is help us guard Lecter. Sounds easy, I know, but he once killed two armed guards with a ballpoint pen.”</p><p>I take the pasta off the hob, rinse it off in the sink. There wasn’t much else I could think of to cook for five adults. I’m not used to making anything fancy, not in my poky old dorm at the Academy. I just moved into a tiny apartment in Ellwood Park. I found that I can’t really stand living alone. So much so that my best friend Ardelia practically moved in with me.  </p><p>Brooke takes a bowl of pasta down with him as he passes Will- well, the two Wills, on the stairwell. I settle on ‘William’ for the one I don’t know.</p><p>“Put the hockey mask back on him,” Will warns Brooke. He sounds shaken, as one always does after conversing with Hannibal Lecter.</p><p>Three bowls are set out on the table. The fourth, I leave on the counter-top.</p><p>“Who’s that for?” Will sneers.</p><p>I elect not to answer. He knows who it’s for. </p><p>He sits and rubs his eyes with the pads of his fingers, a sheen of sweat on his pale face. I suddenly feel very sorry for involving him in this. </p><p>It's hard to articulate that he's both everything I imagined, and nothing like it. I've seen pictures, which always make him look cold and severe. They don't do justice to his strange aura of unimpeachable youth and hard-learned wisdom. I've heard stories, which are accurate as far as describing his idiosyncratic manner, but they lack in communicating what I can only describe as the pure darkness he brings into a room. At all times, I get the impression that Will is fighting with himself, an internal struggle to keep a hold of his identity. </p><p>The other Will- "William", now- picks at his pasta and pushes it around the plate, leaving bologna stained around the rim. He and I eat in silence. Our host doesn't touch his food, only stares into the bowl. He visibly jumps when I venture to ask if he's still going to rat me out. </p><p>"I will never forgive you for bringing him to my home," he says, somber and seething.</p><p>I expected as much. </p><p>"I'll help you because you haven't given me a choice. When Jack calls me later today, I'll ask him to send a couple more agents to back us up. Tomorrow, we go to the hospital."</p><p>I nod, deeply relieved. Across the table, I reach out to him, but he shuns my offered hand. "Thank you. Thanks." </p><p>He looks bitter and disgusted. "I'll make up the guest room for you. Or would you prefer to share the basement?" </p><p>His chair scrapes loud on the floorboards as he stalks away.</p><p>Will is no stranger to the Tattler's defamation of its subjects. I'd bet my life savings on the fact that he's read their coverage of the Buffalo Bill case, and the sordid details of my affair with Hannibal Lecter. Of course, there <em> was </em> no affair. But I know how it looks. </p><p>At night, when I am staring into the dark, I allow myself to wonder if there's an element of truth to any of it. I plead the fifth, and shelve it for as long as I'm able. </p><p>I catch William's eye, who quickly returns to his food. </p><p>"So what's your story then?" I ask, sighing. </p><p>"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." He talks with his mouth full, like a child might. In a way, very child-like, but I can sense his innocence has been torn up and spat on. His sense of humor is disturbingly dark. </p><p>"Try me." </p><p>"This is a parallel universe to mine. I woke up here after a near-death experience, or a point in space where the veil is thin enough to let me through. In my world, there's only one Will Graham, and that's me." </p><p>I wait to see if he's kidding. He smiles. It's a little frayed around the edges, and I resign myself to the fact that he's crazy. </p><p>I start to think that between myself, the cannibal, the psychotic, and the eideteker, there isn't much sanity to spare.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. JOSH | I.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span> - Edgar Allen Poe</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>It was mid afternoon, and they were nearly at BWI airport. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy with his arms resolutely crossed and body angled deliberately away from his mother was fourteen years old. He was tall and skinny like his father, but he had his mother's coloring. His dark hair fell into his dark eyes, way overdue for a haircut. He refused to get one. He was in that phase of life where you refuse things often, because you've just realized your parents can't do much about it. A power trip, of sorts, but harmless enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh refused to talk to his mom. She kept saying stuff like, “look at those horses, Josh”, or, “hey, have you started on that science project yet?” He ignored her attempts at casual conversation, choosing instead to look through the CDs in the glove compartment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Normally, he liked going to Mammama’s. He didn’t visit often, because they were so far away, and they didn’t really like his dad. They had a huge farm house in Oregon, and Grandpa bought him a pony. But he was really looking forward to spending some time with Dad, having been at school for months. He hated school, finding it intolerably boring. He spent a lot of time daydreaming, which his mom found cute and his dad found really, really worrying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dad was weird like that. If Josh had to try and explain it, he’d say that he was afraid Josh would end up like him. He hadn’t yet broken the news that he wanted to join the FBI. He knew his father would </span>
  <em>
    <span>freak.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They were supposed to be going fishing together. Josh didn’t really like fishing, but he loved spending time with his dad, especially when his mom wasn’t there. Not that he didn’t like spending time with her too, but... there was just something really special about the time spent bonding between a father and son. Josh’s father was incredibly and unexpectedly funny when he wanted to be, and he never once treated Josh as if he was a child. It was a source of contention between the two parents, but he’d always said Josh needed to be prepared for what was ‘out there’.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh knew what he was referring to, even if he tried to be vague about it. Years ago, his dad was a profiler for the FBI. There were newspaper articles about him. That’s how Josh discovered he’d spent time in a mental hospital. At the time, he’d been horrified, thinking his dad was some kind of nutcase. Why else would he have been locked up with all the other nutcases? He remembered staring at the words on the page with the unsteady torchlight in his trembling hand, the comforter thrown up over his head as he read in secret the graphic details of the Minnesota Shrike murders, and how his father had killed Garrett Jacob Hobbs and saved the murderer’s next victim. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the past few years, he’d grown up a lot, and he realized how awful it must have been- killing someone, even if you had to. He wondered what it was like. People say “it changes you”, but he’d never been able to work that one out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is Dad in trouble?” Josh asked. He was already tired of refusing to speak, and the question had been in the forefront of his mind since Mom had woken him up and told him to pack his things. He had grabbed his school backpack and tried to put his PlayStation in it. <em>That won't fit, and you need clothes. And Mamamma doesn't have a TV, remember?</em> In his anger, he'd almost broken it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glanced at him in the mirror. “No, sweetie. God, no. Never think that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His parents were careful to hide them, but Josh had found Freddy Lounds’ articles in the Tattler on his computer. He knew everyone thought his dad was crazy and “liable to snap at any moment”, whatever that meant. As a result, both his parents were </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> anal about anything that cast aspersions on his dad’s mental state, even the most flippant joke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He put his feet up on the dash, just to drive the point home that he wasn’t happy. “Well, why did we have to leave, then? It’s nearly </span>
  <em>
    <span>Christmas.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I want to go home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honestly, Josh, I’m not even sure myself,” Mom sighed. “Your dad didn’t give me a lot of details, but he said it wasn’t safe for us at home. He’s going to call me later, explain what’s happening.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Josh huffed and slumped down in his seat, royally pissed off. He loved his parents, but sometimes he really wished they could just be normal. He rammed a CD into the holder a little too aggressively, and turned it up almost full blast. Mom’s hand quickly darted to the volume dial, but she stopped when she recognized the song. It was Dad’s favorite. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. WILL | VI.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em> “Excessive sorrow laughs. Excessive joy weeps.” </em>
</p><p>- William Blake</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>I press my face against the cold tiles of the bathroom walls and watch my hyperventilating breaths condensate them. My fingernails bite crescent-moons into my palms. “You’re okay,” I whisper. “Get it together. You’re okay. You always let him get into your head. Stupid.” I hit my head against the wall, unable to stop myself, and cry out with the pain that blossoms behind my eyes, breathing harsh again. “Don’t do that,” I plead. “Jesus, Christ, don’t do that.”</p><p>When I was studying for my degree, there was a girl in my lectures who wore bracelets almost all the way up her forearms. I remember exactly what they looked like; the colorful beads, charms, bands. They covered the scars lining her wrists, but we all knew they were there. This was something teenage girls did. An epidemic, labelled by some. At twenty years old I found myself imitating her, without even meaning to. </p><p>I met someone with trichotillomania. Days later I’d look down to see clumps of my hair clutched in my fist. The worst was the cigarettes. I wouldn’t even smoke them, just watch until they burned down to the filter, and put them out on my calves. </p><p>I pick up habits like these all the time, in every form of self-harm you can imagine. Dr. Lecter discussed it with me at length, back when I consulted with him.</p><p>“Do you hurt yourself as a deterrent, Will, or a punishment?”</p><p>I had blanched and avoided the question. I wasn’t prepared for it. His words chase me like  a plague of rats, all throughout my life.</p><p>It takes a long time for me to come back to myself. I wish I had brought that bottle of gin with me. It’s sitting on the rack, untouched, because I know if I open it, I’ll drink it. Molly also knows this. She thinks I have a problem, and I’m tired of denying it. Alcohol is what I settled on as the most socially acceptable form of self-abuse. </p><p>I’m scared that if I admit these things, I’ll be ostracized. Molly will leave me. I won’t be able to see Josh, because I’m ‘too unstable’. Jack will blame himself. The Bureau will use me as a cautionary tale, and I’ll probably be sectioned.</p><p>Worst of all, Hannibal will gloat. Even if I never saw him do it, I couldn’t bear to add fuel to that particular fire. </p><p>Someone taps at the door, feather-light. “What?” I snap, but it comes out hoarse and weak.</p><p>Will steps in and closes the door behind him, sitting down up against it. “Thought I shouldn’t leave you alone.”</p><p>“Yeah? Why’s that?”</p><p>“I know what <em> I’m </em> like when I’m left alone,” he shrugs. </p><p>The anger drains out of me. I feel terrible; tearful and sick. I should call Molly, but the house phone is downstairs, and I don’t know if I can move from this spot. I’m paralyzed by fear. Moving between floors feels like moving between purgatory and hell, with the devil sitting pretty in my basement.</p><p>“Do you have children?” I query. I grab a tissue and wipe my face with it, discarding it in the toilet.</p><p>Will chuckles, hollow and almost mocking me for asking. “What’s it like?” he asks me, instead. </p><p>I tilt my head, inviting him to elaborate.</p><p>“Having a child,” he clarifies. He doesn’t want children, I note. <em> Scared. He’s scared he couldn’t be a good father, that his progeny would absorb his neuroses.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Like Josh has. </em>
</p><p>“Um…” I answer, aimlessly, searching for the right words. “... Daunting.”</p><p>He nods.</p><p>“I couldn’t do it without my wife. She’s-” I break off, shaking my head. “I wish she was here.”</p><p>Time passes with only the sound of our breathing. I stretch out my legs on the bathroom floor, feeling them start to cramp up. </p><p>“Do you have someone?” I ask. I instinctively take a gentle tone with him. “A girlfriend?”</p><p>He says nothing.</p><p>“Boyfriend?” I prompt. I know it’s cruel but I just want to observe his reaction. He laughs a little, which surprises me.</p><p>“It’s very complicated,” he tells me. Usually, when people use that phrase, it’s really not complicated at all, just.... difficult for them to talk about. But when Will says it, I believe him.  "I was married, once," he adds, frowning at a stain on a tile. "She was murdered."</p><p>I stare at him, choked before I remember my manners. "I'm sorry." </p><p>"Her name was Molly." </p><p>My heart stops for a second. Will looks at me, somehow knowing. </p><p>I exhale, shivering, swallowing the lump in my throat. All I can think about is my Molly, as selfish as it is. I want to ask him how, so I can protect her, in case she goes the same way. But I say nothing. </p><p>"You can sleep in my son's bedroom tonight," I suggest. "Or I can put his mattress in my room, in case you didn't want to be alone." </p><p>He ducks his head reflexively, hiding his gratitude. He takes a moment to collect himself before he offers me a half-smile and whispers, "I'll be okay."</p><p>"That makes one of us," I say dryly. </p><p>He gets up and I follow suit, pointing out Josh's room for him to settle into. I move a few boxes off the bed in the guest room. I change the duvet cover because Cayenne has shed her hair all over it. I can’t remember the last time we had someone round to stay. </p><p>Speaking of Cayenne, she's curled up on Josh's bed. Will seems taken with her, and I don’t even need to ask to know that he has dogs of his own. The companionship you find in dogs is second to none. Fearing people doesn’t mean you want to be alone.</p><p>"Clarice?" I call downstairs. </p><p>She appears, apprehensive, but putting on a brave front. I feel embarrassed for the way I've treated her, so I try to soften my voice when I tell her the room is ready. They should get some rest before what is bound to be a long day, one which I myself am dreading. She touches my shoulder when she passes. </p><p>I check my watch. Molly should have checked into a hotel by now. I’m about to call her, but then the house phone rings. Jack sounds a little worried. “Will, why aren’t you answering your phone?”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“I broke it.”</p><p>“I see. How’s everything with you?”</p><p>“How much time do you have?”</p><p>“As much as you need.”</p><p>I take a deep breath. “The rogue agent you mentioned. It wouldn’t happen to be Clarice Starling, would it?”</p><p>I don’t think I’ve ever heard Jack quite so angry. He can’t stop apologizing. At first, I gain a sense of cruel satisfaction, that he’s having to take responsibility for dragging me into yet another shitshow. After a while, it becomes embarrassing, <span>and his guilt becomes mine</span>.</p><p>“Jack, it’s… what it is,” I sigh. “Just please send some more people to my house. I don’t think I can sleep knowing he’s down there.”</p><p>“Goddammit, Will. Let me come over there myself.”</p><p>“No, no. You stay where you are. We’re uh… we’re coming to see the body at the morgue tomorrow anyway. You could meet us there.”</p><p>“You can tell Agent Starling that she’s an agent no more.”</p><p>I hesitate. “Maybe you don’t have to-”</p><p>“Absolutely <em> not.” </em> He cuts me off. “You meet a pretty girl and suddenly you’re excusing her for bringing a cannibalistic serial killer into the family home.”</p><p>“What the hell? It’s not like that. I’m married.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, I’m just kidding with you. But I’m not giving her anyway lee-way. You shouldn’t, either. Look after yourself.”</p><p>“All right, Jack.”</p><p>“I’ll send some guys, they should be there in an hour or so.”</p><p>“See you tomorrow.”</p><p>Between relieving Brooke of his duty to make room for the new guard, pointedly ignoring Dr. Lecter and his persistent attempts to rattle me, I find the time to call Molly. It’s late, and I think she lets it ring on bitter principle.</p><p>“Josh is sleeping, so I have to be quiet.”</p><p>I know Josh probably isn’t sleeping, but I let it slide. “This has been the craziest day of my life,” I tell her.</p><p>“Well, it’s not in my top ten, either. Can you tell me anything? Is the house safe?”</p><p>“If I told you, you’d flip. Molly, please believe me, everything is under control, but I really don’t want either of you anywhere near this. It’s dangerous.”</p><p>“Is it Jack fucking Crawford again?”</p><p>“No, he’s… he’s trying to help me. Someone decided they needed my help and came to ask for it, without Jack’s permission. He would never have agreed.”</p><p>“You really think that.”</p><p>“It doesn’t matter. It’s happened, and I’m dealing with it.” I stop myself from getting angry with her, as if any of it is her fault. “I really wish you could be here. It’s been hard. For me.”</p><p>She doesn’t say anything for a moment, but I can hear her quiet breathing. “All I wanted was to keep you safe from all this,” she says eventually, forcing the words out with effort.</p><p>I didn’t expect to hear that. My eyes start to sting a little. “I’m really sorry.”</p><p>“I know you are. Hurry up so I can come back to you, okay?”</p><p>“Okay.” I try not to sound as pathetic as I feel. “Tell Josh I’m sorry too. About missing our trip.”</p><p>“Yep. Stay safe.”</p><p>I cradle the phone against my cheek even after she’s hung up. For a blissful few minutes, my mind was clear. Now the thoughts crowd back in, like grains pouring into the mill of my brain. My heart rate spikes. I wasn’t ready to go back to this world, where everyone is either victim or suspect. Working on the boats is monotonous, demeaning, poorly-paid, but it won’t make me spiral like this.</p><p>I’m twisting open the cap of the gin bottle before I even realize I’ve taken it. The alcohol is just enough to settle my nerves, but it won’t help me sleep. </p><p>I imagine what the body of Thomas Underhill looks like. Enucleated eyes, jaw twisted into a silent, agonized howl of pain. Cut deep into the meat of his skin, a cryptic Bible verse that gives us no clues as to our killer’s identity. I dread being in the room with him. I dread becoming him. </p><p>I look down at my watch in time to see the date on it shift from 15 to 16. Still, sleep eludes me. </p><p>Suddenly, I’m wide awake, gaze drawn immediately to the hall as I hear the stairs creaking. I stay motionless, mentally taking inventory of who and what is where in the house. I wonder what damage this persistent adrenaline surge is doing to my body; my heart and blood vessels.</p><p>“Hey.” A voice from the dark, the door pushed open. “We saw you weren’t in your room. Can’t sleep?”</p><p>Clarice pads into view, Will behind her. I let out a shuddering exhale, my tense muscles relaxing all at once with the relief that I’m safe.</p><p>“Nice outfit,” I remark blankly, taking in her makeshift pajamas, consisting of<em> my </em> shirt and <em> my </em> boxer shorts. She grins, sheepish, and they join me on the opposite couch. Wordlessly, I hand her the bottle. She takes a dutiful swig, without so much as a wince, and passes it to Will. </p><p>“You know, I skipped out on a date to be here,” she announces. </p><p>“Is that right.” I’m acerbic, but glad to see them. I forget what it’s like to have friends.</p><p>“Yes. I haven’t seen this guy for months- I haven’t seen <em> any </em> guy for months, I’ve been so busy- but he texted me, and we were supposed to go out for a meal. He’s an entomologist.”</p><p>I laugh and try to disguise it as a cough, and then Clarice’s expression just makes me laugh even harder.</p><p>“What’s funny?” she says, knowing exactly what’s funny and cracking up a minute later. I guess we’re a little hysterical at this point. Even Will is smiling.</p><p>“I had plans, but they weren’t nearly as exciting as a date with an entomologist,” I sigh. Will tries to hand the bottle back to me but I wave him off. “Don’t let me drink any more. I mean it.”</p><p>“What were you going to do?”</p><p>“Go fishing with my son.”</p><p>“What’s his name?”</p><p>“Joshua.”</p><p>“That’s a nice name.”</p><p>“My wife chose it. I wanted to call him Joseph, but Molly said she had an ex-boyfriend called Joseph who had a latex fetish.”</p><p>Will snorts. I hide my own smile. There’s something especially rewarding about making him laugh.</p><p>I learn a lot about the both of them. Despite living in the knowledge that only carpet and floorboards separate us from my mortal nemesis, I manage to relax as the conversation flows. The tiredness will catch up with me later, but I'm grateful we can build a rapport, and start to work as a team. </p><p>At some point, Clarice asks the million dollar question as to where Will came from. We exchange a glance, silently agreeing to take the plunge. I think we both feel we can trust her; although whether or not she will credit our story is up in the air. </p><p>By the time the sun comes up, we're still debating over paranoid delusions, identity assimilation, parallel universes and clones. No closer to understanding it and feeling thoroughly psychoanalyzed, Will falls asleep curled up on his side of the couch. </p><p>Clarice and I check on the two agents who are on night shift guarding our mutual friend. They are in good spirits. I don’t imagine that will last.</p><p>For now, everything is safe. Rarely in my experiences does it ever stay that way.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. WILL | VII.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>"When I tell the truth, it is not for the sake of convincing those who do not know it, but for the sake of defending those that do."</em>
</p><p>- William Blake</p>
<hr/><p>While I set out fresh clothes for him, and show him how the shower works, I ask Will what he thinks is happening. Why he washed up outside my home, how Dr. Lecter knew who he was.</p><p>“I find it very difficult to believe anything unless I see it with my own two eyes,” Will murmurs. “And even then…” he smiles humorlessly, “I’m never sure I can trust them.”</p><p>“Do you think we’re the same person?” I ask. I regret the somewhat accusatory slant on the question, but Will brushes it off.</p><p>“What other explanation is there?” he counters. </p><p>We stare into the mirror, side by side. It’s pointless, because there’s nothing similar in our features. He’s shorter, stockier than me. His hair is wildly curly and dark. Mine is pale and straight. Our skin tones are different. My eyes are a clearer, purer blue than his. His facial features aren’t so sharp and drawn, and his voice comes in at a lower register than mine.</p><p>I know that our likeness exists solely in our minds. Our experiences and appearance are varying stages of dissimilar. </p><p>“When he said he hurt you… how did he mean?” Will directs the question to my reflection in the mirror.</p><p>I hesitate. Then I take off my shirt.</p><p>Will stares at the scar on my abdomen. By this time, I’ve learned to read him decently, and it’s profound shock that I see in his parted lips and shining eyes. I allow him to look, because there’s nothing like heat in his gaze, and patiently wait for him to explain himself.</p><p>He shakes his head a little. “It’s probably easier if I… show you.”</p><p>“Can I put my shirt on?” I ask dryly.</p><p>He gives me an odd look that I interpret as <em> would you keep it off if I said no? </em> My lip curls, and I pull a clean sweater over my head while he’s fumbling to untuck his own shirt from his belt. When I tug it past my eyes, I go very still. </p><p>Will’s skin is darker than mine, and the dark hair dusting his stomach almost obscures it, if I didn’t know where to look. But I do. And the thick, stark-white scar running down from his left hipbone up to cut into his ribcage is a mirror image of my own.</p><p>In that moment, I know Will is telling the truth. Because I look down at the floor, and he tries to maintain eye contact- we mirror each other, because we share in the same disorder that makes our identity so unstable. </p><p>“Who did that to you?” I whisper.</p><p>Will swallows. I track the movement with my eyes. </p><p>“A friend,” he answers, careful in a way that belies this was so much more than a friend.</p><p>“What was his name?”</p><p>Will shakes his head. “You still don’t believe me, do you?” </p><p>I exhale, feeling caught out. “It’s not that I-”</p><p>“Hannibal Lecter,” he tells me, with a conviction that implies he knows the impact it will have. </p><p>Hearing that name is always like being struck by malediction. I’m shaking, again, I can feel it- the shock of this revelation has sent adrenaline coursing through me in the same way it did when I first received the scar. </p><p>How can Will <em> know </em> Hannibal? How can he have the same scar as me, the same name as me, the same… so many things that I secretly suspected to be his fragmented mind absorbing parts of my identity, most likely from some stray FBI case file, or a newspaper article on Hannibal the Cannibal. </p><p>It’s common knowledge in law enforcement circles that I was attacked. But there’s no record of the shape of my scar, so how could Will imitate it, by the very direction the knife travelled?</p><p>I rub at my eyes, feeling a migraine start to build behind them. In this world, there are many things I can’t explain, and I’m content to accept them as they are. This is different. This is shaking the foundation of everything I thought I knew, and it’s all in front of a man claiming he and I are the same person. </p><p>“How do you-”</p><p>“Just as there are two Will Grahams…” Will trails off, letting me infer and deduce. </p><p>I heard what he said before, about us being the same person. But it took until this moment for me to truly understand what that means.</p><p>When I tried to read Will, it was like looking through fog. Thick and roiling, it obscured the true meaning of his body language, and whatever I could infer from his particular inflections. I didn’t pick up his manner of speech in the same way I did with everyone else, and our conversations began awkward and stilted, because I couldn’t unlock the key to his tells. </p><p>Now I can see everything. I see his fear, and his tentative affection towards me. Worst of all, I see his abject loneliness; something written so strongly in the planes of his face that I wonder how I ever could have missed it. </p><p>It’s too intimate. I’ve known people, but never like this. </p><p>“You believe me now,” Will says. It’s a statement, not a question, saturated with relief. I feel guilty and sorry. I take my head out of my hands and look at him; really look. And I realize that he is telling me that there are two Hannibal Lecters in this world.</p><p>He tells me everything. Ears in the esophagus and encephalitis in the brain. Seizures, prison, blood and pain. Killing and falling. Waking up half-whole.</p><p>By the end, I cannot believe I ever thought that Hannibal ruined me. The truth is, I had a lucky escape. Will hasn’t yet extricated himself, and I can hear longing beneath the shaky foundations on which he recounts his trauma. Psychological torture to a degree of sadism I didn’t think possible; from a version of my tormentor more ruthless, more obsessive. </p><p>“You want to go back,” I murmur. It’s clear as the day to me. Even after everything, he wants to go back to it. To him.</p><p>I’m thinking about the emptiness I saw reflected in his eyes, the defeat in the way he carries himself. His flinching paranoia and the scar on his abdomen. The scars torn into his knuckles, where his teeth cut into them to make himself sick; and the constant second-guessing his own reality.  </p><p>He says nothing. I don’t want him to get hurt any more than he already has been.</p><p>“There’s a place for you here,” I amend. “There will always be a place for you here.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. HANNIBAL | II.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"Love insists the loved loves back."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>- Dante Alighieri </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The two guards sent by Jack Crawford were good friends. On the journey, they had each other in stitches as they did impressions of the firearms expert at the Academy, and speculated on whether human meat tasted more like pork or like chicken. When they found themselves stationed at the threshold in the shadow of their prisoner, their tongues felt heavy in their mouths, and idle chatter seemed tasteless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Lecter tasted dust on his tongue in the basement of Will Graham’s cabin. For years, he’d tried to manipulate some young dumb secretary into handing him Will’s home address. His success was limited. All of them had been forewarned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This place, half-way tucked behind loblolly pines and peeking out to a bay view, could not suit the young man better. Private, sheltered, close to nature; it took him away from the overwhelming bustle of the BSU, the streets of Baltimore, and refreshed his mind like he’d cycled it through a washing machine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lecter was pleased to be here at last. While Will had often visited him in his office, he’d never had the pleasure of meeting Will’s family or spending time at his home. He believed, had Will not discovered his secret, that that chance would one day have come, and their friendship would have continued to bloom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks of Clarice, and her visceral fear over the prospect of his death, so much so that she risks everything to keep him out of harm’s way. Why do this? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can choose not to hate, but you cannot choose not to love. He’s tried to purge himself of the pain it brings, but now he is wise enough to savor it, and the unique opportunity it grants him. Knowing Clarice is his greatest pleasure; as sharp, strong, and selcouth as she is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She may not even realize that she is falling in love with him. Lecter has long since accepted the scope and magnitude of his feelings for her, which can neither be curbed, nor ignored. It’s been many, many years since he last felt a woman’s touch. Clinically, he allows himself to envision what it would be like to feel her soft skin against his. If she ever dared, he would make it worth the risk a thousand times over. As he believes in monsters, so too he believes in those who can love them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lecter isn’t prone to outbursts of anger, least of all directed at those he considers beneath him. Chilton delights in juvenile attempts to get a rise out of him, demeaning him with arbitrary diagnoses in the hope that he will refute them. The most irksome was psychopathy. If he could not love, then why did Mischa’s passing nearly destroy him? Why did Will’s betrayal hurt more than the arrows that pierced his flesh? And if he could not love, why then did he sit calm and still, instead of tearing his way through Clarice’s jugular? There were things about Lecter that Chilton would never know, and that chipped away at the man’s spirit. The more some rookie agent coaxed from Lecter through courtesy and charm, the more Chilton resented his silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was why he had taken the letter. He wanted to learn more about his prize patient, and he was willing to violate his privacy to do so. The man was as principled as a scavenger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lecter traces the handwriting in his mind. Elegant, masculine, but written by someone who first learned to form letters in a different language. He concentrates on discerning that language while he waits for news on the victim, eyes closed, still as stone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To see Will and Clarice together is the greatest gift. Both inextricably tied to Lecter himself, so similar in their paths and purposes, and yet so exquisitely different. Will’s darkness would meet Clarice’s purity like flint meets steel. There was no doubt in his mind that the two of them working together would catch their elusive killer. Yet whether they would catch him in time, he could not say.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. ARDELIA | I.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Everything you can imagine is real. ”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>- Pablo Picasso</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>It was just over two years ago, lined up as fresh-faced recruits in the unforgiving September frost, that I met Clarice Starling. Half of me was shivering with the cold, the rest with nerves. In that particular group, we were the only two girls, so I could pick her out straight away. A white girl; short, lean, and brunette. She held her chin up, pretending like me that she couldn’t hear the men sniggering around her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ve always been confident, but the idea of sharing a dorm with some stuck-up science nut for God knows how long was really putting me on edge. I wanted so badly to make a friend in my roommate. I had my fingers and toes crossed that she’d be a good laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily for me, I couldn’t have asked for a better friend. She asked if I wanted to go for a drink after cross-country, and the rest is history. I thought maybe I’d prefer to live alone for a while, do everything on my own terms, but within a few days of her moving out, I’d already had enough. I dropped by her new apartment in my old neighborhood, and she hasn’t gotten rid of me yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Guru is putting the pressure on me. Calling me up asking if I know where she is. I’ve put two and two together, and I’ve decided Clarice has spent so much time chatting with lunatics that she’s become one herself. Breaking a cannibal out of his cell like something out of a movie. I hope she realizes what that’s done to her career.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, I can’t help but admire her gall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Opening the door to see her there almost gives me a heart attack. “Are you trying to get me fired, too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything’s sorted,” she tells me, brightly. “You’re not going to get in any trouble.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I raise my eyebrows, but let her past. The girl is like a whirlwind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I took Lecter to a safe house, off the radar. Crawford wasn’t happy about it, but…” she shrugs. “He’ll either come round, or he won’t. I did what had to be done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pilcher came by. I told him you were on an urgent call. He looked heartbroken.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a man-eater, Clarice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t get me started on man-eaters.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I laugh. “How is dear Dr. Lecter, anyway?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She makes an unintelligible noise of despair. “His usual charming self. Gave Will Graham a nervous breakdown within five minutes of talking to him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you met Graham? What’s he like?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She snorts, throwing herself onto her bed. “Weird. Kind of cute, but, weird.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s going on right now? Are you staying here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. I left Will at the morgue. Crawford is picking him up and taking him to the psych hospital afterward. Things have been so strange. There’s this guy claiming to- ugh, honestly, I don’t even think I can explain it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well- from what I can gather, he washed up outside Will’s house, claiming that they’re the same person. Oh, don’t look at me like that! I’m just telling you what they told me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I manage a feeble apology when I finally stop laughing at her. Clarice draws in trouble like a magnet. I might be envious if it didn’t know how stressful it was. She might have been fast-tracked, but it came at a price. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, I don’t know. He might have some kind of dissociative disorder, or schizophrenia, or…” she trails off, looking pensive. “Really, though, I could almost believe him. He knows everything about Will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But that’s because of the papers. Even I know a bit about him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh no. I mean, </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s his name, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will, obviously!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s ridiculous,” I can’t help but chuckle. “Honestly, Clarice. The things you get yourself into. You want to be careful. Surrounding yourself with these kinds of people might make you lose touch with reality.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine, Ardelia,” she sighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I pause and study her, tense and thoughtful. Worry keeps her fists clenched, and frown lines form on her forehead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re worried about Lecter,” I realize.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you a psychic, now, too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s all over your face, girl. That crusty old man, oh my God. Your daddy issues are showing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ardelia!” she snaps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Relax. It’s not really his age so much as his criminal record, you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wouldn’t understand,” she mumbles into the crook of her forearm, slung over her face. Well, she’s half-right. I don’t know what anybody could see in a man like that. But I do know very well that you can’t help who you love. Often, something just clicks between two people, even if they don’t want it to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clarice, I’m not your mom. I just don’t want you to get hurt. You’re like those people who get mauled by their pet tigers. It’s all fine when Lecter’s behind bars, but what happens when you let him loose? One wrong move, and suddenly your tiger is not so tame.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I watch her, waiting for the inevitable sarky comeback, but she’s quiet. That’s when I know I’m right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clarice lets her arms fall back to her sides, and sits up on the bed, tracing patterns on the comforter. “We just have... a connection, that’s all.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks like a teen girl, knees tucked up to her chest. I’m taken back to secretive sleepovers and the sound of my friends introducing Jack Daniels into my toilet bowl. Simpler times, and yet here we are.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I make us both a sandwich and a coffee while she tells me about her case and packs a bag of clothes. At some point, I take over, because she’s creasing them up and they’ve been ironed not too long ago. I feel a little more like her mother sometimes, but I know she’d do the same for me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“-so we’re hoping that if we get our hands on this letter, it will give us some hint as to who wrote it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re sure that the killer wrote the letter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not at all. But it would be one hell of a coincidence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She scarfs the sandwich down like she hasn’t eaten in days. I wonder if she got any sleep last night, with the dark circles under her eyes, and her wrinkled shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turns the television on to the news. No mention of Dr. Lecter’s withdrawal from the mental hospital, nor the murder of the guard. I know Crawford is trying to keep all this under wraps, so there’s no panic, and no one’s pointing fingers at the Bureau.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not long before they return for Clarice. She welcomes them in, all three, apprehensive when it gets to Crawford. He smiles at her, somewhat snake-like, and I read his lips to know he plans to talk to her later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I feel awkward standing around as they talk in hushed tones. I quietly ask if anyone wants coffee, or something stronger, and they all agree on something stronger- apart from Will, who looks white-faced and unwell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His friend comes to help me pour the drinks, as Crawford settles himself neatly on the couch, casting a beady eye over Clarice’s apartment. The place was a mess before I cleaned it. I had half a mind to leave it as it was, but I can’t leave clutter alone. I’m one of those freaks who enjoy washing the dishes, vacuuming the carpet, that sort of thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Ardelia, Clarice’s friend,” I offer. I note that he doesn’t raise his eyes up to look at me, but he manages a smile, and says, “I’m Will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t that a little confusing?” I ask, nodding towards his companion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely.” I hear the wry note to it, which others may have dismissed as social awkwardness. I’d like to talk to him more; having struck me as an interesting character. Too often I forget that men aren't all just primitive beasts who stare at your breasts while they're talking to you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes Jack the glass of bourbon, and returns to sit on one of the kitchen chairs. He’s good-looking, if a little shorter than me. He seems to want to take up as little space as possible, hunched over with his hands clasped in his lap. I like his voice; his slow, soft manner of speaking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His counterpart also exhibits this hunted, haunted aura, but in a rather different way. This Will shied away from me, but when Graham speaks to Clarice, I can almost hear her accent clinging to his own words. He mirrors everything she does, every gesture she makes; and I begin to realize that it’s not even a conscious effort. He’s agitated and distressed, but she does her best to calm him, imploring and gentle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All three of us; Crawford, Will, and Jack, are surreptitiously watching them. I wonder if we’re thinking the same thing- that they fit together like pieces of a puzzle. Then I see the flash of a gold band glinting on Graham’s left hand as it comes up to rub at his neck, and I decide instead that what they’ll have is a friendship. Strong and lasting, both of them so inclined to pick up strays. Both believing they’re saving the other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Graham ends their conversation when he asks to use the bathroom. Crawford takes the opportunity to go outside with Clarice. I exchange a look with Will, no doubt the both of us wondering if Jack is going to fire her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hear Clarice raise her voice a little, and catch the words, “with all due respect, sir-”, which is never a good sign. I will her to shut her mouth and take whatever patronizing bullcrap he’s pushing, if she wants any chance of keeping her job. Any boss hates deviance from his orders, but he hates </span>
  <em>
    <span>unjustified</span>
  </em>
  <span> deviance from his orders more than anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Graham comes back from the bathroom, strands of his blond hair dark at the front where he splashed water over his face. I think he might have been sick. I think I might have too, if I’d have seen the dead guard, with his jaw all dislocated like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances between us. “Wait, do you think he’s going to fire her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why wouldn’t he?” I mutter, glumly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head. “No, he won’t. I asked him not to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So whatever you say, goes?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I freeze, immediately wishing I hadn’t said it. Graham stares at me, eyes narrowed. I feel like he’s seeing past my skin. I remember what I read about him in the Tattler, and what I heard from Beverly Katz, and what I heard from the guys at the BSU who thought he was a freak. I remember that tasteful picture of him in the hospital where Lounds had made sure to include his temporary colostomy bag. I remember how he looked much younger than I expected, and how right now, he looks so young and so old at the same time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” I concede. “I’m just worried about her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, the anger deflating him into weary and quiet. “Clarice took Lecter to my house. If I forgive her, so can Jack.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I blink at him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Your</span>
  </em>
  <span> house? She said it was a safe house.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” he deadpans, “it’s a house, and it’s safe.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ice between us melts quickly. I pointedly avoid any questions based on what Clarice told me, and instead we bond over a mutual passion for forensic science. Both of them are extremely knowledgeable, and it’s nice to talk about something with a guy that doesn’t constantly keep dipping into flirtatious territory.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crawford’s voice startles me from the door. “Mapp, are you anything like Ms. Starling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I balk at the question. He sees me hesitate, and laughs as he puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll keep an eye on you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take that as a positive, a hint towards the fast-track, instead of anything untoward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clarice hugs me before she leaves. Over her shoulder, I catch Will Graham’s eye. He gives me a short nod. I feel guilty for all the times we bantered about him in the Academy. He’s not so bad. It’s one of my life lessons learned, to form my own opinions instead of going with the crowd. What a pair we make; Clarice with her rebellion, and me with my conformity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I tell her to look after herself, and I pray she’ll make it back here. I pray they all do, because it’s easy to see they share a trait in throwing themselves into danger. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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